


Sundering

by HewerOfCaves



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Everybody Gets A Piece Of Dialogue, First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Friendship, Gen, Right Now A Little Fractured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: “Answer then! If you knew the truth, would you stay your hand? Would you let justice prevail and our bloodthirsty cousins meet their deserved end? Would you raise your sword to slay them? Would you protect the side that was truly wronged?”A confrontation between the children of Fingolfin and Finarfin after the kinslaying at Alqualondë.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 43





	Sundering

Fingon heard the approaching footsteps and let out a small breath. He had known this was coming. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, but he wouldn’t avoid it. The ground nearly shook under Angrod’s determined and furious steps. Fingon knew that Aegnor would be with him, no less angry but more restrained. He turned to face them.

His cousins were marching towards him, rage and betrayal in their bright eyes. Finrod and Galadriel were behind them, moving soundlessly, almost sliding over the ground. Fingon’s own siblings weren’t too far away, nearly running to catch up with their cousins.

“Why?” Angrod said without preamble, as soon as they stopped in front of Fingon. “We loved you as a brother.”

“I still do,” Fingon said.

Aegnor barked out a laugh that Fingon had never heard from him before.

“Does a brother do what you did?” he asked. “Does a brother steal from his brother’s kin? Does a brother take up a sword against his brother’s kin?”

Galadriel and Finrod were now next to their siblings. An unpleasant tingle went down Fingon’s spine. Standing together like this, the children of Finarfin didn’t look like the cousins he knew. They seemed more than Elves; they looked like vengeful Maiar, who had come to bring Fingon to justice. If Aegnor’s look was fire, Finrod’s was ice. If Angrod pinned Fingon with his heavy gaze, Galadriel dissected him, laid him bare.

Fingon rolled his shoulders and winced slightly at the pain in the left one.

“I will not deny I was rush in joining the battle. I was thinking only of aiding my kin, who seemed to be in mortal danger. I did not stop to consider the reasons.”

Aredhel and Turgon had reached the group by then. Fingon’s sister was looking at their cousins sternly, almost challenging them. Turgon stood a little to the side, his gaze flickering between his siblings and his cousins.

“Ignorance is no excuse for my actions,” Fingon continued. “I betrayed our bonds. I betrayed you and myself. Nothing I say will ever undo that. Still, I ask for your forgiveness even without hope that you would grant it to me.”

He cast his gaze down and waited. When a moment later, unable to bear the tension, he looked up, he found his cousins deep in conversation, though no words were shared. Aegnor turned to him.

“Forgiveness you should ask from those you slew, from our grandfather, whose treasures you helped to steal. We cannot give it to you in the name of those you wronged. From us, you will receive nothing but judgment.”

“I do not see your grandfather here,” Aredhel said. “I see only my cousins, who presume to have the right to judge but not the right to grant forgiveness. So be it. If that is your wish, I will try to respect it. You said your piece. Now leave my brother. What more do you want?”

“I have not said my piece yet,” Angrod said, his every word a rock thrown at Fingon’s chest. “You claimed ignorance of the matter. You claimed to believe the attackers were our grandfather’s kin. Answer then! If you knew the truth, would you stay your hand? Would you let justice prevail and our bloodthirsty cousins meet their deserved end? Would you raise your sword to slay them? Would you protect the side that was truly wronged?”

Fingon’s throat was dry. He had no answer for Angrod, no answer for himself, and it terrified him as much as the first drops of blood on his blade had.

“No use now to ponder upon what he would have done,” Aredhel answered in his stead. “What is done is done.”

“I would hear him speak. I would like to see him look into my eyes and lie. I would like to see him try to deny it, try to deny that even now he would do the same if Maitimo asked him. Even now, when the true nature of our cousins cannot be denied, he would follow them. If Maitimo whistled for him, he would obediently run to him, forgetting everything and everyone, just like he has always, always done.”

“You will not speak so to my brother,” Turgon said quietly, furiously, and through the growing painful haze, Fingon felt a pang of shame for being surprised, for thinking that in his heart his brother agreed with their cousins.

“Am I not your brother too, Turvo?” Finrod asked. His look, colder than the wind blowing from the Helcaraxë when directed at Fingon, warmed when it turned to Turgon. “For I have always thought you mine.”

“How very kind of you,” Aredhel said. “Oh, virtuous Ingoldo, so honorable that he will board the ships stolen from his massacred kin and sail in search of a kingdom to rule.”

For the first time, Finrod seemed to lose his composure. His beautiful face twisted. Galadriel, though, turned her gaze, full of contempt, to Aredhel.

“I would not expect you to understand ambition,” she said coldly.

Aredhel bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I did not see you standing among us to decide the fate of the Noldor.”

“I wished no part in Fëanáro’s madness.”

“Yet you follow him.”

“Not him. I follow my father, the true king. As do you.”

“I follow no one.”

Turgon laughed. “You are as deluded as you are arrogant, little cousin.”

“Turvo, I do not appreciate the way you talk to my sister.”

“Keep her and your brothers in check then.”

“Neither Nerwen, nor we are the ones who need to be kept in check, Turukáno. Address your words to your own elder brother.”

“My brother is honest at least. It is not him that condemns the massacre and still wants to benefit from it.”

“Do you think we could return after what happened? After our beloved cousin slaughtered our kin?”

“You try to return then. Could you even—”

“What was he supposed to do? He saw that our—”

“He could have waited! He could have tried to find out—”

“He could have—”

“Oh, it is so easy! I would like to see you try—”

“—in the middle of a battle when you only have time—”

“—no blood on our swords.”

“—myself in that situation in the first place.”

“That is easy to say but hard—”

“—hard for those who—”

“Not hard if—”

“—calling dull-witted?” 

“—not brave enough—”

“—bravery, I call it—”

“—the Valar—”

“—if not before, then now for sure—”

“—one more word and—”

“—a kinslayer just like—”

“—has to pay for—”

“—justice should—”

“—no right—”

“Enough.”

Distantly, Fingon was pleased to discover that one quiet word from him still could silence his younger siblings and cousins.

“Enough,” he repeated. “I will not have you at each other’s throats because of me. What we have seen, what we-what I have done went beyond our worst nightmares, and we know not what awaits us ahead. I will always bear the mark of a kinslayer, I can never atone for the grief I have caused, but I will not become the origin of strife between dear friends. For the sake of the love we bear for each other and for the sake of the Noldor, let us stand united in the face of the unknown. Let us brave the darkness and reach the vast lands we were promised. Let us emerge victorious in our fight. Then I will surrender myself to your judgment, cousins.” Turgon made to protest, but Fingon didn’t let him speak. “Would that satisfy you?”

Fingon’s cousins contemplated it silently. Angrod looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Finrod nodded, and they turned away, leaving without another word.

When they were out of sight, Turgon grasped Fingon’s shoulder. “You handled it gracefully,” he said.

Fingon shrugged, bowing his head. There were little spots on his sleeve, caked with something rusty brown, though Fingon remembered changing his clothes after the bloodshed. He started scratching at it frantically with a fingernail. Aredhel caught his hand and folded his sleeve, but Fingon could still see the remaining faint stain.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine the Fëanorian betrayal and the terrible journey across the Ice united them and their friendship became stronger than before.


End file.
